


my baby is a real peach

by melwritesthings



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Fluff, M/M, minor medical emergency, salsa-induced puffiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 23:19:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19733707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melwritesthings/pseuds/melwritesthings
Summary: "Um, in other news, I recently discovered that I'm allergic to pitted fruits."





	my baby is a real peach

**Author's Note:**

> i saw a post on tumblr asking for this backstory and.... this happened. this was written VERY QUICKLY so please excuse any mistakes! title is from real peach by henry jamison.

There is a steaming cup of coffee waiting for him at the register when he comes in that morning. David is charmed, though admittedly a little annoyed that Patrick was so easily able to muster the energy to sneak in coffee—and _oh_ , a muffin— so early on his day off. If he was going to be here, why couldn’t Patrick stick around to help open? Or give him a kiss?

Sighing into his coffee, David peers down at the note.

_Good morning! Remember there’s a shipment of those new salsas coming in today. Don’t eat them all! – P _

David shoots the note a mocking look, as if Patrick could somehow see it through the paper. Since the tapenade was selling so surprisingly well, Patrick had the idea of ordering other spreads and dips for their refrigerator. There’s a new peach and mango salsa coming into today that David is dying to try, but it is officially off-limits.

Last week they’d received a batch of spinach dip that David took every pleasure in testing. He’s tested three jars so far, with another tucked in his bag for lunch.

He’s now under strict orders not to eat any of the new food products without Patrick’s direct supervision.

David pulls his thoughts from the snack plate he plans to fix later that afternoon (spinach dip, crostini, salami, assorted cheese, maybe some grapes—nope, _definitely_ some grapes) and looks around the store. It’s silent and empty, still 20 minutes before opening.

He hates Patrick’s days off. He hates working the register all day; hates plastering on his customer service smile every time the bell above the door chimes. He hates being on the salesfloor all day with no chance to hide in the stockroom.

But mostly David hates how dull the store feels without Patrick’s laugh drifting through the space. He hates not feeling Patrick’s eyes on him as he moves about his day. He hates not being able to touch Patrick’s shoulder—or his waist, his elbow, his hand— as he passes by. He hates not being able to pull Patrick into the stockroom for a midafternoon make out session.

David loves their store. He loves the neat rows of products and the light, airy space. He loves the ferns by the door and the faint smell of eucalyptus. It just doesn’t feel quite right without Patrick. They work better together; they always have. David sighs and whips out his phone.

You [8:42 AM]: Thank you for the coffee

You [8:42 AM]: The store is lonely without you

You [8:43 AM]: Are you sure you don’t want to be here today

Patrick [8:45 AM]: You’re welcome

Patrick [8:45 AM]: I’m not coming in today

Patrick [8:46 AM]: Day off, remember?

You [8:46 AM]: Not even to try the new salsa?

Patrick [8:47 AM]: Do not eat the salsa, David

Patrick [8:47 AM]: We need to sell the salsa

You [8:48 AM]: What about quality assurance?

You [8:48 AM]: Think of the customer, Patrick

Patrick [8:55 AM]: Don’t eat the salsa, I’m not coming in, I’ll see you later for dinner

You [8:55 AM]: Fine. I miss you.

Patrick [8:57 AM]: Open the store, David

Patrick [9:02 AM]: Miss you too

\--

Patrick is settling in for an afternoon on the couch with baseball highlights and a new library book. His muscles ache in a pleasant way after a long hike that morning, and he fully looks forward to the nap that surely awaits him.

His phone buzzes, pulling that possibility further away from him.

David [1:41 PM]: Patrick I need you to come to the store

David [1:41 PM]: Like, right now

Patrick smirks down at his phone, the familiar heat in his cheeks rising as he looks at David’s name. He’s surprised it actually took David this long to ask him to come in.

You [1:42 PM]: Absolutely not

David [1:43 PM]: Please it’s important

You [1:43 PM]: Day off! Nothing is important!

David [1:44 PM]: I need you to give me a ride

David [1:44 PM]: Please

You [1:44 PM]: Unless it’s to the hospital, I am not giving you a ride

David [1:45 PM]: It is to the hospital actually

Patrick’s blood runs cold, instantly dousing the cheerful blush that had been making its way across his skin. He dials David’s number, anxiety spiking with each sound of the ringtone.

_Oh god_. David had fallen off the ladder while arranging the top shelf and snapped his neck. He’d slashed himself with the boxcutter while opening new shipments and was bleeding out in the stockroom. He’d slipped after mopping the floors and broken all his bones. He’d—

The sound of David’s voicemail cuts off his wildly derailing train of thought. Why wouldn’t he answer the phone? And why is he _texting_ in an emergency?

You [1:47 PM]: Why aren’t you answering??

You [1:47 PM]: What happened?

David [1:48 PM]: I can’t talk

David [1:48 PM]: Just come here please

Patrick is out the door before the second text comes in.

\--

Patrick can just make out the shape of him sitting on the front step of the store as he speeds towards it. David sits with hands out in front of him, studying them closely.

Patrick throws the car in park and races to him, dropping to his knees in front of him. He grabs David’s hands in his and brings them close.

“What’s wrong,” he breathes, “are your hands hurt?”

His mind is racing too fast to focus on David’s skin; his vision swims as he tries to swallow his fear. When David doesn’t answer, he snaps his head up to look at him. A quiet David, who always has something to say about everything, is something truly alarming.

David—or some kind of bizzaro-world version of him—peers miserably down at Patrick through squinted, puffy eyes. His skin is flushed and slick with sweat, and his usually-kissable lips are massively swollen. Just poking through is a very bloated tongue.

Glancing down, Patrick now sees the hives forming on David’s hands and arms, his skin angry and inflamed. A panicked sound from David jolts him from his visual inventory.

“Okay, okay, David,” he says as soothingly as his shaking voice can muster, “it looks like an allergy. Can you breathe?”

David pulls in a ragged breath and gives him a full-body shrug in response. It looks to Patrick that David’s wheezing is likely due in part to anxiety, but he’s not willing to lose any time. “Alright, David,” he says, leaning up and pressing a kiss to his hair before moving to help David stand, “let’s get this figured out.”

In the car, David’s hand roam wildly over his body, scratching at every itch. Patrick reaches over and gently takes one to keep him from scratching too hard. Future-David would thank him for keeping his skin damage-free.

“Do you have any allergies that you know of?”

David gives a shake of his head.

“Well, what did you eat today?”

David gives another full-body shrug before gesturing incredulously to his swollen face, reminding Patrick that he can’t talk. Patrick misses his voice.

“Right, sorry.”

Sitting in the hospital waiting room moments later, Patrick pushes David’s hair from his sweaty forehead and whispers soothing words against his skin. Things Patrick used to hear him mom say when he was sick and scared.

_You’re okay, David, everything’s okay, I’m here, I’ve got you, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here—_

He can tell that David initially wants to fight him, to keep him from touching his sweaty hair or kissing his blistered skin, but the need to be comforted weighs out and David slumps against him. Patrick is touched that David trusts him like this.

A nurse soon comes for David and Patrick is surprised at how difficult it is to let her wheel him away. He wants to follow; he wants to keep kissing David’s feverish skin; he wants to comfort and hold him until he’s pried away. He starts to step forward but the weight of all his wanting buckles his knees.

Instead he sinks into his chair and calls weakly after David, “I’ll be here.”

\--

David sits in his bed, gazing disapprovingly at the kitschy art on the hospital walls. This place is depressing enough, patients should not also be subjected to mediocre still-life drawings. He closes his eyes and thinks about Rose Apothecary, with its tasteful décor and soothing atmosphere.

He wants to be there right now.

A small cough draws him from his daydream and David looks up to see Patrick sliding past the curtain to his bed. They exchange faint smiles, both sagging with relief at the sight of the other.

Patrick sits and takes David’s hands instantly. His cool skin feels incredible, soothing David’s own still-tingling body.

David watches Patrick’s eyes roam about, taking in the scene before him: the IV in David’s arm, the fading hives, the steady beeping of the pulse monitor. David feels a strong urge to prove that he’s okay, to ease the worry etched in Patrick’s features. Though exhausted, he knows he’d dance out of here if it would reassure Patrick.

“I’m alright,” he says softly, squeezing Patrick’s hand.

“I know,” Patrick whispers back, not quite able to meet his eye, but returning the squeeze, “I know that now.”

“You were right, it was an allergy. The nurse says I can go home soon. I just have to carry a very off-brand EpiPen around in case I'm attacked by anymore pitted fruits.”

Patrick smiles more fully and sits back in his chair. After a moment he looks David directly in the eye.

“It was the salsa, wasn’t it?”

**Author's Note:**

> if yall haven't had peach and mango salsa, GET ON THAT. also find me on tumblr at woof-david or on my main at chic-cooprs. let's yell about these two absolute BOZOS.


End file.
